


Dead-Man Walking

by Laur



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Depression, Friendship, Gen, John is a Bit Not Good, Memory Loss, Post Reichenbach, Reunion, smugglers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 05:33:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laur/pseuds/Laur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since the death of the famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, John Watson has been repressing all memories of his late flat-mate. Two years later, when a stranger barges into his flat and asks him for help, John finds himself strangely drawn to the man and, despite knowing the absurdity of it all, embarks on a mission to help him take down a gang of dangerous smugglers. Little does he realize that the apparent stranger knows him better than he can imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Repression

Less than a month after the suicide of the famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, John Watson was in his own shabby flat in a rough area of town. Mrs. Hudson had wished for him to stay at 221b Baker Street and had even offered a substantially reduced rent fee to allow him to do so, but he couldn’t stand the sight of his old rooms, which reminded him all too painfully of his late friend. Molly Hooper had, surprisingly, suggested that he come stay with her for a while, explaining that she had cared for Sherlock, too, and thought it only decent to help out the man’s closest friend. John, however, had no wish to keep past relations, and so found himself cheap accommodations elsewhere. At least twice a week, though, he received a phone call or a text from Molly, inquiring as to how he was doing. He found this sudden attention from someone whom he could only consider a casual friend rather irritating and until he could think of a kind enough way to ask her to stop, he simply didn’t answer her calls or texts. In fact, he mostly just left his phone off nowadays.  


“So, how are we today, John?” asked the counsellor.  


The setting was a familiar one. John had been coming to this room once a week to talk with his counsellor. He wasn’t quite sure why he bothered. Perhaps it was simply routine. Or perhaps he liked seeing a face that had no connection to past events. Whatever the reason, every week he came at the scheduled time and had a mostly one-sided conversation (he didn’t contribute much) with the same woman, in the same room.  


He didn’t answer her question right away, just sat on the couch and stared blankly at where she sat across from him. She didn’t flinch under his gaze. “Fine,” he said at last.  


“That’s good. You seem tired though. Have you been sleeping well?”  


“Well enough.”  


“And how have you been dealing with everything?”  


Again there was a pause. The counsellor waited patiently. His lack of response was not a surprise to her. Whenever she breached the topic of John’s late friend she never got much of an answer. Of course, given their close friendship, she could hardly expect otherwise, but she mentioned it every meeting, regardless.  


“I moved into a new flat last week,” said John with a hint of defiance. He knew this was not the “everything” she was referring to, but this was the interpretation he chose to take. “It’s great.”  


“What made you leave your old flat?” No answer. “Were you looking for a fresh start?” Her client stared fixedly at the arm of the couch in which she was seated and said nothing. “John. I know you don’t want to talk about this, but you can’t simply ignore everything that happened. Talking about how you feel about it, about the things you miss about him, about how you’re moving on, will make the process much easier.”  


This was how most of their meetings went. She would ask him how he was doing and would warn him every time of the danger of repressing his emotions and memories. Yet she was never able to reach that breakthrough she was hoping for.  


It was another month after this meeting that John’s knee began to ache again. It hadn’t bothered him for ages, but he just chalked it up to the change in weather. It was, after all, nearly autumn. When he went to his next meeting with his walking stick, however, the counsellor seemed mildly alarmed.  


“Hello, John,” she greeted him. “Did you hurt your knee?”  


“No, no, it’s just my old military wound,” he assured her. “It gets a bit achy when the weather changes.”  


The counsellor’s face was inscrutable. “Would you remind me what exactly your old military wound was?”  


John’s brow furrowed at the ridiculous question. She did, after all, have access to his military files. “Well, you know,” he said. “I was shot.”  


“Yes, but in the knee?” she asked.  


He stared at her blankly. “Why else would it hurt?”  


She carefully searched his face to see if he was perhaps joking, but his seriousness worried her. After returning from Afghanistan, she had assumed that his limp was due to Post Traumatic Stress. Once he had gotten rid of it she had figured he had mostly recovered. This reinstatement of the limp had her taken aback. “John, you were shot in the left shoulder.”  


“No, that’s not right,” was all he said.  
  


John’s life had become nothing more than a routine. Another month and a half later and he had managed to acquire a job as a general practitioner at a small doctor’s office near his flat. He got up at nine AM every day and he went to work four days a week for six hours a day. Other than his meetings with his counsellor and occasional trips to the supermarket, those were the only times he left his rooms.  


Despite having been in his flat for nearly three months it was strangely bare. There were no pictures, no décor and the only furniture was that which had come with the flat. Much of his time was spent reading medical journals, watching crap telly, or reading news online, though he avoided the crime section. He had also stopped posting on his blog. His short tribute to his friend over two months ago was the last activity it had seen and since then he had willed himself to forget everything he had ever written of their adventures. He still received a text from Molly every now and then (he hadn’t gotten the nerve to ask her to leave him alone) and Harry emailed him occasionally as well. He did, in fact, reply sometimes, but only in the briefest way possible.  


Time went on, but John’s limp didn’t get any better. He could tell by his counsellor’s questions that this worried her, but for what reason he had no idea. He wasn’t worried about it – he had, after all, been shot. It was only natural that it should still bother him.  


His meetings with his counsellor were very familiar now. In fact, he actually spoke more with her than he used to. She would ask him how was doing and he would mention his medical practice. When she asked about friends and family he had to admit that he didn’t really have any, at least none that he saw, but that this didn’t bother him – he didn’t mind the solidarity.  


“You put on a good show,” she said one meeting, staring at him intently. “But I don’t believe everything is going as well as you say.” To this he had no answer.  


When asked about the past and how he was handling things, he was more subdued. He would say that he still thought about the war sometimes and that it still gave him nightmares.  


“It’s strange,” John admitted. “I didn’t get those nightmares for a while. I don’t know why they’ve come back.”  


“What do you see in these nightmares?”  


John had a surprisingly hard time answering this. Not only could he never remember his dreams clearly, he also didn’t like talking about them. He wasn’t sure why, but it made him uncomfortable. “I’m not sure,” he said at last.  


“How do you feel in these nightmares?”  


John looked away. This was stupid, why were they discussing his meaningless dreams? “I feel dread,” he said with a hint of annoyance, seeing that she was scribbling something in her notepad. She knew he could read writing upside down, so she held it carefully angled so he couldn’t see what she had jotted down. “When I wake up I always feel helpless, like there’s something horrible about to happen but there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”  


“And you don’t know what the horrible event about to happen is?”  


“No, I can never remember,” he said dismissively. “I’m sure it’s just memories from Afghanistan.”  


His counsellor wasn’t entirely convinced, but she let the subject drop. What worried her more than his nightmares was the way that whenever she mentioned Sherlock’s name John would go completely blank. Not only would he not answer her, it was almost as if he couldn’t even hear her. His eyes would go blank and when she tried to get his attention it was as if she was breaking him out of a reverie. “Sorry, what?” he would say. It was a year after his friend’s death – this was not healthy or normal behaviour. He should have been able to discuss things with her. Any mention of the names Moriarty, Richard Brook or talk of detective work stimulated a similar reaction in him. It was as if he had completely buried all his memories of his friend and shut down at anything that could remind him of that past. John’s counsellor felt at a loss of what to do.  


As time went on, John didn’t know it, but Molly Hooper had come to a similar conclusion as his counsellor’s. John never told her much, but she had picked up enough through his texts to realize that he was repressing his memories more and more. Her theory was proven correct when he suddenly stopped answering her texts at all. He was cutting off his connections to the past. He stopped going to see his counsellor – he told her he didn’t see the point in coming anymore – and the only person he ever communicated with outside of his medical practice was his sister whenever she sent harassing texts.  


It was a few weeks later, while paying for groceries at the supermarket, when someone tapped him timidly on the shoulder. Turning around he saw a vaguely familiar face.  


“Um, hi, John,” she stammered. “How – how are you?”  


He stared at her for a moment. “Oh!” he said at last. “Molly. It’s been ages. I’m good, thanks. How are you?”  
She looked uncomfortable, fidgeting with her scarf and biting her lip. “I’m fine. But, well, what do you mean by ‘ages’? I texted you not too long ago. Why didn’t you reply?”  


“Oh, did you? My phone hasn’t been working properly; I guess I didn’t get it,” he replied.  


“John, you, well, you don’t need to cut me out. I know it hurts, but we both care, er, cared for him,” Molly said, rather awkwardly.  


John stared at her blankly. “Who? Oh, Mike Stamford? Sure, I guess we were okay mates. He did introduce us at Bart’s, didn’t he. Well, I’ve got to get going, but it was nice to see you. If you see Mike tell him I say ‘hi’.”  


“That’s not –” she began, but he turned and quickly limped out of the store, leaving her staring open-mouthed and dumbfounded after him.  
  


John continued living his quiet, lonely life for another month. It was then, nearly two years since moving into his new flat that he got a knock on his door one evening. He couldn’t think of anyone who would come to visit him, so he got up from his dinner assuming someone had gotten the wrong address. Upon opening his door, however, he found two policemen.  


“Hello, sir,” said one. “We’re here to inform you that there was a shooting in your neighbourhood yesterday night around one o’clock. Would you happen to know anything about it?”  


“My God. Uh, no, I was already asleep at that time, sorry. I had no idea this had happened.”  


“Alright, sir. We recommend that you take precautions such as locking your doors and windows and closing your blinds at night. The victim was shot in his house through his window from long range and we don’t yet have any suspects in custody. If you have any concerns please call.”  


“Absolutely. Thanks.” John closed the door and didn’t think much of the incident again – it was a rough area; people got shot.  


The next day was beautiful and sunny and his knee wasn’t bothering him too much, so John decided to walk to the supermarket for a couple of things. On the way home with his groceries, he was walking down his street when a hunched, dirty homeless man, with a beard and a hood covering most of his face, came out of nowhere around a corner and collided with John. The man stumbled with a gasp of surprise and his sunglasses fell off. John stooped to pick them up, but when he looked up to hand them back the man was gone. Stunned, John stood up with the sunglasses in his hand and glanced around. The street was empty. Confused and still holding the sunglasses, John walked home.  


A few hours later, John heard a knock on his door. Surprised to have two visitors in as many days, he opened his door and was even more surprised to see the hunched homeless man standing there.  


“Hello, John,” said the man. John’s shock at the man’s knowledge of his name was forgotten as the stranger suddenly pushed past him and into his flat.  


“Hey!” John cried in protest. “What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”  


“Close the door, would you,” requested the man as he pulled off his dirty hoody.  


John stared, open-mouthed at his audacity. “Get out,” he ordered.  


The man rolled his pale, blue-green eyes and, suddenly standing taller, lurched toward the door and closed it with a bang. His hunch gone, John now had to look up at him. John backed up, feeling behind him for a weapon of some sort – his cane ideally, though that was leaning on the other side of the kitchen table. He knew where his gun was, but there was no way he could get to his night-stand drawer fast enough.  


The stranger’s sharp eyes observed John’s movements – also taking in his returned limp, tired eyes and somewhat gaunt appearance with a pang of guilt – as he reached to his own ear and suddenly ripped off his beard. John stared at him in comical surprise. Before him no longer stood a hunched homeless man, but a tall, lean figure, clean-shaven with strong cheekbones, dark, curly hair and pale skin.  


John was speechless for a moment, staring at the man’s slightly smirking face. “Who the hell are you?” he exclaimed at last.


	2. Amnesia

The man’s smirk faded and a strange expression took its place. John seemed to read a mixture of sadness and worry in his eyes.  


“Hmm, it seems that Molly was right,” he murmured, staring at John intently. “I knew you were prone to repress things, John, but I must admit that I did not believe that things would get this bad.” The man paused, still looking at him, but John seemed unable to respond. It appeared as though John had walled himself off from his words, Molly’s name causing some sort of defense mechanism to activate in his mind. Though Molly had warned the tall man of John’s strange amnesia, seeing it in person was substantially more upsetting. Of course, he was not known to be an emotional or sociable person, and very few things had the ability to hurt him, but seeing his one closest friend looking at him without any recognition caused his chest to tighten and his hands to shake with nervous energy. Suddenly the man strode quickly forward and grabbed John by the shoulders before the doctor had a chance to react. “Do you really not recognize me, John?” demanded the man, leaning down and forcing John to look him in the face.  


Uncomfortable with his proximity, John shoved him off.  


“If you don’t get out this instant, I’m calling the cops,” John warned, feeling for his phone in his pocket and wishing it was his revolver.  


The man started pacing, seemingly unaffected. “No, no, they won’t be fast enough,” he muttered dismissively, as if John had proposed a particularly bad plan instead of issuing a threat. The agitated man pushed his emotions to the back of his mind for later and decided to focus on the more urgent matter at hand. He reached into the backpack he had brought with him and began pulling out his coat and scarf. “John, I must admit it to you. We have a potentially dangerous task ahead of us.”  


“What are you _talking_ about?” John cried, exasperated.  


The man gave an impatient sigh. “Look, I don’t have time to figure out your psychological state right now,” he said as he quickly pulled on the coat and wrapped the scarf around his neck. “There’s already been one murder and another is being planned as we speak. I need to catch the culprit and I need an assistant.” He paused and finally looked at John. “Will you help me?”  


Seeing the man in the long, dark coat and blue scarf, John’s eyes widened. The other man froze, hope gleaming in his eyes as he noticed John’s reaction. But the next moment John’s eyes glazed over and he shook his head as if banishing a troublesome thought.  


“I don’t even know you!” he cried at last, and noticed the man wince inexplicably at his words. “Why should I help someone who broke into my flat?”  


“Fine, I’ll just appeal to your morals, then. I am in danger and, as a fellow citizen, I am asking for your help. As an army doctor, could your conscience handle refusing my plea?”  


“How do you even know –”  


But the man waved a hand dismissively. “Will you help me?” he asked with a strange intensity.  


John hesitated. He didn’t know why, but he felt a sudden urge to listen to the strange man. He found himself wanting, indeed, to help him with whatever dangerous task he was about to embark on. He could feel himself naturally and inexplicably drawn to the mysterious man. In any case, helping a neighbour in need was only the right thing to do, wasn’t it?  


John swore under his breath. “Fine! I’ll help you with your bloody mission.”  


The man beamed at him, delighted. “Wonderful. Where are you going?”  


John turned back from where he had started heading to his room. “If we’re doing something dangerous I’ll need my revolver.”  


The man grinned at that. “No need. Where we’re going, there’ll be plenty to spare.”


	3. The Game Begins

“I came in disguise so I wouldn’t be recognized. We’ll need to go out the back way now so we’re not seen. I believe your flat has access to a back alley-way,” the man muttered as they left John’s flat.  


“Why can’t the police help you?” John grumbled, already regretting his decision to follow the lunatic.  


“I left them a tip to meet us, but we must act now.”  


“Right,” he said sarcastically. This was all very James Bond in his opinion.  


It was getting dark and they were rushing as quickly as John’s limp allowed through back lanes when the man finally decided to explain his plans.  


“A man was shot in your neighbourhood two nights ago, I’m sure you’re aware,” he began. Those pale eyes glanced down at the shorter man and John nodded. “That was the brilliant but certifiably insane Timothy Danilla, recent inventor and creator of an extremely small, silent and powerful handgun. He worked for and was killed by the same man: Felix Kenin. Kenin, now in possession of the revolutionary weapon and its plans, detests loose ends and so eliminated Danilla. This is the man we are after.  


“Tonight, we will prove that a gang of smugglers, led by Kenin, have been bringing illegal firearms into England, undetected, for the past three years. I have managed to worm my way into their society, leading them to believe that I have a high-paying employer – a “Marcus Spencer” as I’ve dubbed him – who is interested in what they have to offer. As a sign of good faith they are allowing my employer’s best crony – myself – to bring in one ally as a sort of bodyguard, I suppose we could say. It is also a show of their power, of course, for only someone very confident of their force would allow two strangers into their midst without any worry of being sabotaged.”  


“And why do you need me for all this?” John demanded, unwilling to get pulled into such affairs now that he was realizing how serious they were. He should just turn around and go back home, really. And yet, the idea of leaving the eccentric man to his own defenses vexed him more than he would have liked to admit.  


“You’re my… ally,” he said softly. “Obviously.”  


John sighed at that vague explanation. His limp was making it hard to keep up with the man’s long stride, so he was glad when he waved down a cab and they clambered in. The man gave the cabbie directions and then lowered his voice so only John could hear him over the cab’s radio.  


“We must be prudent not to be tardy – Kenin is on a strict schedule tonight. I’ve learned from my connection in the gang that they have Alexander Danilla held captive in their underground headquarters. He threatened to out the smugglers to the police after what they’d done to his brother and Kenin plans on silencing him after the transaction with us tonight.” He paused and eyed John’s cane unhappily for a moment. He opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again, seeming to have changed his mind. “Your limp will be an advantage here,” he said at last. John stared at him incredulously. “They will underestimate you,” he explained. “I will create a diversion and we will search for Danilla. Hopefully the police will be able to make themselves useful by that point and help us escape with the captive. We will have one ally on the inside – the person who informed me of Kenin’s plan for Alexander earlier today while I was in disguise. I was leaving that meeting when I ran into you on the street.” _I wished badly to stop, but didn’t for fear of you recognizing me,_ he thought but didn’t add. Clearly, his caution had been unnecessary.  


“This is insane,” John muttered. Why was he going along with this? It made no sense for him to be helping this stranger, yet he couldn’t find it in himself to want to leave. He was inexplicably drawn to the man.  


“Yes, well, at least we have one person on the inside willing to help us. He’s fond of Alexander and does not want him to be killed, even if it means getting the gang revealed to the police. In fact, he’s hoping that by surrendering he’ll get off easy with the cops. It’s fortunate that he was clever enough not to let Kenin see his true feelings, or else he’d be on the execution list as well.”  


By that point the cab had reached its destination and, after paying, John and his mysterious partner got out. They stood by the side of the road as it sped away and was quickly replaced by a nondescript, black car. The front passenger door opened and a big man with a bald head and sunglasses got out.  


“You here for Mr. Spencer?” he asked, observing both of the men skeptically. Indeed, he appeared to find them very unthreatening.  


“Yes,” the tall man next to John responded. “We’re here to discuss business with Mr. Kenin on his behalf.”  


The burly man nodded and stepped forward. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I must search you for weapons. Standard procedure, you understand.” Once he was satisfied that they were, in fact, unarmed, he opened the back passenger door of the car. “Get in.” 


	4. Headquarters

The back of the car was separated from the front like a limousine so that John couldn’t see out the windshield and the windows he had access to were tinted so dark that he couldn’t see out of them. Being blind to what was outside the car had John on edge, but his partner simply sat with his eyes closed, a serene expression on his face. When they stopped, John had no way of knowing where they were, but he noticed his unlikely partner pull out his phone and send off a quick text before stuffing the phone back in his coat pocket. The back doors were opened and John saw that they were in a dark and untidy garage. The two men were led by the two gang members into an elevator and John noticed his partner’s eyes darting all around, absorbing everything of their surroundings. One of the gang members pushed a button, the lift started down and John sorely missed his revolver.  


The elevator doors opened to a long corridor with cement floors, lit only by dim yellow lights in the ceiling. As the two “representatives” were led to a door at the end, a muffled cry could be heard echoed from another hallway somewhere. The sound made the man who had driven here scowl.  


“We should’ve taken care of _that_ hours ago,” he muttered.  


“Boss wants to know if he’s told anybody anything,” the bald man replied.  


John shuddered slightly and glanced at his partner’s grim face. _Not good,_ he thought.  


They were led into a small room where another two gang members waited, unobscured firearms on their hips.  


“Wait here,” baldy ordered, and the door was shut behind them, leaving the two men with the two armed henchmen.  


The two ruffians looked slightly anxious, though not because of the arrival of John and his partner. Another muffled cry could be heard from somewhere in the building and they both glanced involuntarily at the other door on the wall to their right.  


“Everything all right?” the man next to John asked innocently. “I thought we were here to see Mr. Kenin.”  


Both men’s eyes snapped in their direction and one of them opened his mouth to no doubt issue a scathing remark, but then, seeming to remember that they were hoping to do business with “Mr. Spencer, the high-paying employer”, he plastered on a strained-looking smile. “Of course,” he assured them. “Everything is fine. Mr. Kenin will be here shortly – he is simply finishing up some pressing business.”  


No sooner had he finished his sentence when the room’s second door opened and a harassed-looking man popped his head in. “Josh!” he snapped. “Boss wants to see you.”  


The bigger of the two armed men jumped and rushed out of the room after him, leaving John and his partner with one supervisor. The three of them stood in silence for a moment, anxious silence on the gangster’s part, and John glanced up at the man standing next to him. He flinched a little when he saw those pale eyes glaring at him. He was obviously trying to get some message across. John’s brow furrowed slightly in confusion. The blue-green eyes glanced down to stare very pointedly at John’s cane, then flicked to John’s left to stare at the smuggler, and then returned to John to give him a wink. The next thing he saw were those eyes rolling back into the man’s head, his face going slack and then John lurched forward to catch him as his legs gave out.  


“Eh!” the gang member barked as John eased to the man to the ground. “What’s wrong wiff ‘im?”  


“Not sure,” he muttered, checking the fallen man’s pulse and troubling over that wink. Kneeling on the ground next to his collapsed partner, he could feel the cool metal of his cane digging into the palm of his hand. It was that in addition to the sound of the hesitant footsteps of the gang member wandering over for a closer look that gave him the realisation. _Oh. Diversion, right._ “Do you think you could come check on him? See what’s wrong?” John asked of the smuggler.  


“Oh, well, I’m no doctor,” he mumbled, but approached anyway to see what he could do. John stood up as the other man crouched down over the figure lying on the ground. Grasping his cane in his hand, he drew back his arm, and then whipped it down on the smuggler’s head. With a crack and a yelp the man collapsed on his face.  


“Luckily for you, I am,” John muttered, safe with the knowledge that he hadn’t hit him hard enough to cause serious damage, just knock him out.  


There was a chuckle from the man that was now sitting up – he’d never really been unconscious. _It’s good to have you back, John,_ he thought. He almost said it, but then stopped himself. After all, he didn’t really have him back yet, did he? The notion sobered him instantly.  


“Good work, John,” he praised while getting to his feet. He took the prone man’s gun and handed it to John, more confident of his military friend’s aim than of his own. “Now let’s find Alexander, shall we?”  


Together they went out the door through which Josh had been summoned and found themselves face-to-face with another gang member. John tensed, but his partner put a restraining hand on his wrist. “Relax,” he ordered. This must have been his inside ally, then.  


The gang member nodded at the curly-haired man in greeting. “I stashed Josh in a closet. He’s pretty mean, so I figured I’d help you out and get rid of him.”  


John’s partner smirked. “Thank you, Brady. And John helped take care of the other one.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the room they had just exited. There was a sudden bang down the hall and his head whipped towards the sound. He started swiftly in its direction, throwing “Let the cops in!” over his shoulder at Brady.  


The two men rushed to the door from which the sound had originated and paused. John could here scuffling coming from inside. The taller man put his hand on the door’s handle and looked at John. _Ready?_ He seemed to ask. John nodded and the hand on the knob began to turn.  



	5. Attack

The door flew open and revealed the towering figure of a burly man, his back facing them, a gun pointed at a cowering heap on the floor. John’s partner didn’t hesitate. Jumping into the room, he threw his arms around the neck of the gunman, pulling him back out into the hallway. The large man gave a strangled yell of surprise, throwing his arms up. As he did so, a shot went off, leaving a bullet hole in the ceiling. John slammed his hands with his cane, forcing him to drop the gun, and then hurried to restrain his flailing limbs as he tried to break out of the choke hold he was in. Kenin had fallen backwards when he had been grabbed and was now on his back on the floor, John’s partner’s back against the hallway wall and his arms wrapped around the smuggler’s neck. With eyes wide and wild with rage, the huge smuggler suddenly lurched forward against the hold around his neck and then jerked back, slamming the back of his hard head against his restrainer’s chin. The force slammed the dark-haired man’s head against the wall behind him and his grip loosened involuntarily with shock. Kenin was quick to jerk out of his hold and scramble for his fallen gun, but John saw the goal of his trajectory and was not about to let him get that far. The smash of a metal cane on his elbow caused Kenin’s arm to collapse under him and his face to hit the floor. Realizing the smuggler was much too strong and large for him to restrain and strangle, John simply took out his recently acquired gun and smashed the butt of it against the side of his head. Kenin’s head whipped to the side and he fell, not stirring again. John heaved a sigh of relief and turned to see his partner ashen, a little dazed and sporting a bloody chin. John winced at the sight.  


“You okay?” he asked, lending the man a hand to pull him onto his feet.  


The taller man grunted non-commitally. “I’m just glad he missed my teeth,” he muttered, touching his chin gingerly and grimacing slightly.  


John’s doctor-mode snapped on as he scanned the man in front of him for injury. Other than a cut and badly bruised chin, a slight headache and some shaken nerves, he appeared fine. John wanted to check him more thoroughly, but a whimper had him hurrying to check the figure lying in the foetal position on the floor in the room. Now that he had the chance to observe his surroundings, John saw that the room was in shambles. There were two metal folding chairs, one of which was on its side near the man on the floor, a desk was overturned and boxes and various supplies were scattered around the room.  


Alexander Danilla was handcuffed and badly beaten, with cuts and bruises around his head, face, arms and hands. His graying hair was matted in some places with blood and his lip was split and swollen. As John checked his pulse and breathing and gently lifted his eyelids to test his pupil response, he could tell that the man was only semi-conscious. John’s partner crouched next to him and began fiddling with the handcuffs with a piece of metal like a paperclip. _He’s picking them,_ John realized, his eyebrows rising slightly at the sight.  


“This man needs a hospital,” John informed his partner and then glanced back at the hallway. He could hear yelling coming from somewhere in the building.  


“The police are coming,” muttered the man working on the second hand cuff now. John heard a metallic click as the manacles came all the way off. “Grab him and I’ll cuff Kenin out there. I think Danilla’s starting to come around.”  


He was right. Alexander’s eyelids were fluttering and he emitted a pained moan as John helped him sit up.  


“Alexander, I know it hurts but we need to move,” John said anxiously. The shouting was getting louder and John thought he could vaguely hear the pounding of running feet.  


“Hurry!” came a hiss from the hallway. Then the taller man reappeared to help John get Danilla on his feet.  


“Did you take his gun?” John asked, indicating Kenin with his head.  


“Yes, but you’d better still do the shooting,” he responded. “I’m not as quick with a firearm.”  


John held his cane in his right hand and had his other arm wrapped around Danilla, whose head was lolling with his face on his chest. The complaining of his weak knee had John grimacing in pain, but the two men managed to get the stumbling Alexander out into the hallway just as someone rounded a corner a few meters to their left. The man was of average height, maybe 6 cm taller than John, though of a very bulky stature. They froze at the same time the smuggler did, him equally surprised to see them. Then the smuggler noticed his boss lying handcuffed and unconscious on the floor, took in the pitiful sight of the three men before him (one with a cane, one with a bloody face and one nearly unconscious), and began stalking menacingly forward, hand reaching for the gun at his waist.  


“John, run!” his partner ordered, removing his supportive arm around Alexander and running forward to intercept the approaching smuggler before he could draw his weapon completely. Calculating that he wouldn’t be able to get out his own gun faster than the smuggler (who had already grasped it in his hand), he figured charging and hopefully startling him was his best option by that point.  


Though Alexander was beginning to recover a bit more from his stupor, he still wasn’t completely with it, and had to lean most of his weight on John. It wasn’t this sudden additional weight or his limp that had John stumbling, however. He was gasping in shock from the words that had reminded him so strongly of the time that he had said something very similar to a friend. ‘Sherlock, run!’ he had cried, willing to endanger himself to allow his best friend to escape, before grabbing Moriarty in a choke-hold from behind. The smell of the chlorinated pool filled his nose as he was submerged in the memory and his heart was thundering in his chest. He only managed to stop himself and Alexander from falling by stepping forward with his right leg. And then he realized – his knee didn’t hurt! Standing up straight now, his cane dangling uselessly in his hand, he stared with wide eyes at the back of a head of dark, curly hair and thought, _Of course! Of course it’s Sherlock. It’s been him all along. Sherlock!_ Sherlock who had just gotten to the smuggler in time to knock the half-raised gun out of his hand, willing to endanger himself to allow John to escape with Alexander. John, however, didn’t have time to rejoice or rage (he wasn’t yet sure which was the more appropriate reaction) because as he watched, the smuggler, having lost his weapon, turned and punched Sherlock square in the jaw, knocking the detective against the hallway wall with the momentum. With him momentarily preoccupied, the smuggler lunged for the gun that had been knocked out of his hands with the intent of using it to finish him off.  


“Sherlock!” John shouted, without conscious thought, in warning.  


Sherlock, having slumped against the wall, looked instantly toward the sound of his name being called by such a familiar voice. His blurry eyes focused in time to see the doctor, still supporting Danilla with his left arm, whip out, aim and fire his gun with exceptional speed. Then Sherlock turned to see the barrel of a gun, still pointed in his direction and held by the smuggler, who then fell to the ground, dead. When his gaze returned to John again, he exulted to see that his friend was standing firmly on both feet without the aid of his cane, which was now lying by the doctor’s feet. The next moment, though, he was abruptly worried as he took in John’s wide, staring eyes and pale face.  


“John, are you alright?” Sherlock asked with some apprehension as he approached the doctor slowly.  


John felt a little light-headed as he stared at Sherlock’s face. Was he alright? He wasn’t sure. His right arm was stiff at his side with the gun still clenched in his hand and he had to force himself to relax his hold on Alexander a bit, who had whimpered from his suddenly tense grip. He realized vaguely that he was going into shock. His mind was numb and he couldn’t think. He shook his head slightly.  


Sherlock was right in front of him now, watching John’s face intently. “Let go of Alexander, John,” he ordered. John complied automatically and Sherlock helped the still weak man to sit against the wall. Sherlock could distinctly hear the shouts of police now and knew that they were taking control of the building. “John, give me the gun,” he demanded in a low voice. He slowly reached for John’s right hand and carefully loosened his tight grip on the weapon. Once Sherlock had gotten the gun out of his hand, John’s hand stayed locked in that position.  


John could see Sherlock watching him carefully, as if he were a skittish animal. John could also see some emotion behind those pale turquoise eyes, but couldn’t determine what it was yet. These were things he could see but not acknowledge. His mind was still blank and he knew that if he actually processed what he was seeing something would snap and he would be unable to stand there in front of Sherlock so calmly.  


“The police are here,” Sherlock informed him. “Let’s get Alexander out of here, shall we?”  


John nodded and together they helped the now awake Alexander Danilla to his feet and led him down the dark halls of the smugglers’ underground headquarters. Though now fully conscious, Alexander was, aside from his heavy breathing from the pain of his injuries, strangely silent.  


“How are you doing?” John asked, automatically distracted from his own state by the needs of a patient.  


“My brother is dead,” the man replied flatly. “You should have just let him shoot me.”  


Two years ago, before John had experienced such a personal loss, he would have offered encouragement and counselling to a patient that had said that. Sure, he had lost friends in Afghanistan, but in war it was to be expected and none of those losses had affected him nearly the way the loss of Sherlock had. Since losing his closest friend, his perspective had changed.  


“I understand,” John said, the words causing Sherlock to glance at him sharply. Well, not so much the words themselves, but rather the way John had said them: with deep empathy and sadness, like he truly did know how the sorry bloke felt. Sherlock had never heard his friend’s voice sound like that. “But you have to keep fighting,” the doctor added.  


When they were almost at the elevator, they were halted by a shout of “Stop! Police!” Turning around, John was surprised and Sherlock was secretly pleased to see Detective Inspector Lestrade aiming a gun at them.  



	6. Home

“My God,” Lestrade gasped, quickly lowering his weapon as he recognized the men in front of him. “Sherlock Holmes, it really is you.” He couldn’t help smiling and was mildly embarrassed to feel extra moisture in his eyes. “And, John, I supposed I should have expected that you would be here as well.”  


“Lestrade,” Sherlock nodded, aloof as always. “Would you mind escorting Alexander Danilla here – he was beaten by the currently handcuffed smuggler Felix Kenin – so that I may get John his own medical attention?”  


Lestrade was so overwhelmed with the situation that he agreed without argument, though he did glance over John curiously, perhaps wondering why he had so far remained silent. “Yes, yes, let’s get upstairs. The team can handle rounding up the last of the criminals on this level.” The four men stepped into the elevator as the DI spoke into his speaker-mic, saying he was bringing up three victims for treatment. This incited an impatient sigh from Sherlock.  


“ _I’m_ fine,” he grumbled. He kept throwing glances at John, whose pallor was making him anxious.  


“Don’t look it,” Lestrade retorted, eyeing the bloody chin. “There are ambulances outside. One of our team was shot,” he admitted, looking upset.  


The elevator doors opened to the garage that they had originally entered by and they exited into the bustle of a crime scene. Lestrade helped get Alexander to a medic and Sherlock led John, a hand on his elbow, through the flashing lights and sounds of emergency responders and their vehicles. Sherlock ignored the looks of incredulity on the faces of cops, who froze when they caught sight of him, as he weaved his way towards a vacant ambulance.  


“Sh-” John gasped. “Sher-”  


Sherlock glanced down, quickly taking in the pale face, trembling lips and heaving chest, and knew that he was breaking down. He grabbed John by the arms and carefully, but irresistibly led him to the back of the ambulance, onto the ledge of which the shocked man instantly collapsed. He was breathing hard and was staring at the exotic features of the man crouched in front of him with wild eyes.  


“I need to clean your chin,” he said suddenly and started to get up before Sherlock pressed on his shoulders and forced him to sit down again. “No, Sher – no, I need to…”  


“John,” Sherlock said sternly, but with some alarm, for he had not anticipated such a strong reaction in his old friend. “John, I need you to take some deep breaths. Listen to me, John. You need to calm down.”  


John continued staring at him for a moment, but, suddenly, that wall behind which he had hidden for the past two years disintegrated. Sherlock caught a flash of recognition and pain in his eyes as all those memories slammed into him, but then his face crumpled and he dropped his head into his hands.  


“No,” he groaned. “No, you’re dead! I _saw_ you! I saw you jump –”  


Sherlock was not good with emotion, never had been, and seeing his friend in such mental turmoil left him feeling strangely useless, despite knowing that he himself was the cause of such a reaction. This situation was completely out of his comfort zone.  


“John, I am so sorry. I –” He cut off as John gripped his forearms with sudden strength. Sherlock grimaced at the pressure.  


“You’re not a ghost. No, of course you’re not; don’t look at me like that. But how are you here? I saw you jump. How…” his voice trailed off at the memory and his eyes were ambivalent.  


Sherlock hesitated. “Maybe we should discuss this later…” he said distractedly, standing up and looking around for a medic before giving up and jumping into the ambulance. Where was that orange blanket that they were always covering shock victims with?  


“ _Sherlock_ ,” John said, an edge to his voice, trying to get the detective’s attention.  


Sherlock stopped rummaging through the emergency supplies, sighed and went back to stand in front of the doctor. He couldn’t quite meet John’s eyes. “I had to do it, John. You had to believe I was dead.”  


John, starting to recover from his shock, felt a sudden flash of anger. He opened his mouth to protest but Sherlock quickly continued before he could interrupt.  


“It was for you own safety! Moriarty had snipers on you! You, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. If I hadn’t jumped, you’d all have been shot.”  


John sat, stunned. This, he hadn’t expected. “But why did you not tell me?” he cried. “Two years, Sherlock! For two years I’ve been…” He took a deep breath and continued at a more appropriate volume. “Do you know what your… your _death_ did to me?” His voice was unsteady and he stared at Sherlock with desperate and watery eyes, trying to understand why his closest friend had put him through Hell for the past two years. Because, truly, it had been Hell. His mind may have consciously repressed his memories in an effort to protect him, but he still had had nightmares of – now that he could remember – Sherlock’s death nightly, couldn’t handle anything that reminded him of the past, had nearly stopped eating (most of the food from the supermarket ended up in the trash), had essentially become a hermit… Sure, he’d gone through the motions, but he had been a dead-man walking.  


“I… Yes, I had some idea,” Sherlock admitted. “Molly gave me periodic updates and, you didn’t know it, but I checked in on you every so often, too…” He trailed off as a look of hurt came over John’s features.  


“Molly? Of course, that’s why she became so badgering. She was meant to keep tabs on me. Of course.” He grimaced. “So _Molly_ knew but you didn’t trust _me_ enough, is that it?”  


Sherlock’s eyes widened at his preposterous conclusion. “Of course not!” he exclaimed. “It had nothing to do with trust, John! Molly knew because I needed her help to stage the whole thing. The _only_ reason I did not inform you was for your own safety.” He’d grabbed John’s shoulders and was staring at him earnestly, trying desperately to convince him. “You _had_ to believe I was truly dead, or else no one _else_ would have believed it and Moriarty’s men, realizing I had duped them, would have followed through with their last command: kill John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson if Sherlock doesn’t jump. You see, I had no choice,” he said, releasing his hold on John’s shoulders and leaning back a bit. “Over the past two years, I’ve…I’ve missed you terribly, John,” he admitted haltingly, not used to expressing his emotions. Then he smirked a bit. “You saw me as the homeless man today. That was only one of my many guises. I’ve bumped into you multiple times with you none the wiser for it.” Then he sobered. “But I could never let you know it was me. Not until I’d captured every last one of Moriarty’s men, every last follower. And, as you know, his web was a large one. Felix Kenin? He was the last one, John, and you helped me catch him. That’s why I revealed myself to you today. I knew he was dangerous and hated to work without my blogger.”  


He smiled softly with genuine affection and John could do nothing but sit and stare, his mouth open slightly in shock. Sherlock had never revealed so much of his heart before. Even with his best friend, there had always been a wall there, keeping him distant and seemingly unattached. It was only in life-threatening situations (John’s life typically being the one at stake) that Sherlock’s feelings would show.  


“There were a few close-calls, you know,” Sherlock continued when John stayed silent. He stood up and put his hands in his coat’s pockets, speaking almost abashedly and looking up at the stars peaking through the clouds. “Without having you to shoot every sod that attacks me, and with my gun skills not being nearly as efficient, I thought I was done for more than once.”  


“How…” John cleared his throat. “How did you live?”  


Sherlock looked back at him and made a face. “I needed money, John. I had little choice but to let Mycroft in on it.”  


John chuckled softly at the distasteful way Sherlock spoke of his brother and Sherlock was relieved to see that the doctor was not nearly as pale as before.  


“Feeling better, then?” he asked hopefully.  


John rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands and took a deep breath. “I guess I kind of have to see your logic, but I still think you should have told me.”  


“You’re not that good an actor, John,” Sherlock informed him. “Besides, what if, out of sentiment, you’d tried to find me, or help me, send me food or God-knows-what. I couldn’t take that risk, not when I knew you were still in possible danger.”  


John shook his head in amazement at Sherlock’s ability to insult and admit caring about him in the same sentence. “You know, you’re not any better,” John said, his voice more steady and his body more calm now. “You scoff at sentiment, but you just admitted that you checked in on me to see how I was doing. If that’s not sentiment, I don’t know what is.”  


Sherlock sniffed at that and refused to answer, but inside he was flying. John may not have said it, but Sherlock could tell that he was practically forgiven. And he was so very glad to have his friend, after everything that they’d both gone through, beside him again.  


Looking up at the tall man in front of him, it suddenly hit John that everything was going to be alright. Sherlock was alive and well and so was he, and so long as Mrs. Hudson hadn’t sold their flat (he doubted it if Mycroft had been involved) they could even go back to their old rooms. John knew things wouldn’t be perfect – what he had gone through had affected him too much and he still felt resentment about being left out of the loop – but things hadn’t been perfect before the fall either. A sudden overwhelming joy filled him and he couldn’t help himself. He stood up and smiled hugely at Sherlock.  


“What?” Sherlock asked suspiciously.  


Then John stepped forward and threw his arms around the taller man, catching him totally off guard. He jumped and gave a little gasp of displeasure but John just tsked at him.  


“I know you don’t like being touched, but you can deal for a minute,” he admonished him lightly. John could feel Sherlock’s warmth and could feel his chest move with his breathing. He couldn’t hear his heartbeat through his coat, but he knew that had to be beating strongly as well. “I’m just so glad you’re alive,” he explained.  


After a moment, John felt Sherlock’s tense muscles relax and smiled when the taller man wrapped his arms gently around his shoulders and back. He didn’t say anything, but John understood the meaning anyway: _I missed you, too_.  


They broke apart as an EMT approached.  


“Well look who decided to show up!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Where were you ten minutes ago when this man needed an oxygen mask?”  


“Sherlock,” John sighed, but couldn’t help smiling. Things certainly hadn’t changed there: Sherlock could still be an obnoxious prick when he wanted to be.  


“Sorry, sir,” said the medic, a little testily perhaps, “but we had a couple gun-shot victims to stabilize." He began a rudimentary check of John’s vitals as he was talking. “Plus, the DI informed us that it was fine because he’s a doctor and that you two had some “stuff” to deal with.”  


“Oh for God’s sake,” Sherlock muttered, crossing his arms. He would have walked away, but decided to observe what the EMT was doing instead.  


“I’m fine,” John assured the medic, waving him away. “Is everyone else alright?”  


“Yes, they were all taken to hospital in stable condition. The police officer was shot in the arm and one of the smuggler’s was shot in the leg, but they’ll both be fine. Another gun-shot victim was found dead in the building though; bullet straight through the heart.” Sherlock and John were carefully mum on that. “And Alexander Danilla is being treated for various lacerations and bruising, but nothing was broken.” John nodded – he had already checked Alexander himself.  


“Get him counselling,” John told the medic. “He’ll not take his brother’s death well.”  


“Noted,” he nodded. “Would you like me to take a look at your chin?” he asked Sherlock. “Looks like you got a good knock there.”  


“I’m fine.”  


“Are you sure? You really should let me clean it.”  


Seeing Sherlock getting annoyed, John spoke up. “It’s alright. I can take care of it – I really am a doctor.”  


The EMT just shrugged. “Fine, I guess.” He placed a box of supplies next to John and left. Sherlock turned as if to follow him but was held back by a sudden grip on his arm.  


“Yeah, no. You’re not going anywhere,” John informed him, pulling him back and forcing him to switch places with him. John stood in front of him and looked down at Sherlock’s bruised face.  


“I need to talk to Lestrade,” Sherlock protested, trying to get up.  


“Not until I check your chin. Stop squirming.”  


Sherlock sighed loudly but limited his movement to an impatient tapping of the fingers. John cleaned the cut on Sherlock’s chin with rubbing alcohol, causing Sherlock to hiss at the sting, and was glad to see that it didn’t need stitches. He patched it up with a bandage and then offered him ice for his swollen bruises. John wasn’t sure which was worse: the bruise from getting a head-butt to the chin, or the bruise from getting a solid right-hook to the cheek-bone.  


“We’re going to have to get you some ibuprofen,” John told him, thinking of the headache he was going to have.  


“Yes, fine, alright. Stop fussing,” Sherlock waved his hands in a fluttery ‘give me space’ sort of way. “I need to find Lestrade.”  


John turned to the sound of approaching footsteps. “Speak of the devil. Good to see you, Greg.” They shook hands and smiled.  


"Yes, good to see you, John. It's been too long," the DI responded, looking over the doctor. 

John shuffled uncomfortably under Lestrade's scrutiny. He realized then that the DI was aware of how badly he had reacted to Sherlock's "death" and that he was worried about him. 

“I suppose I owe you another thank-you, Sherlock,” Lestrade said, crossing his arms and looking at the man who was just standing up. “It’s not every day you get a tip from a dead man.”  


“Yes, well, I am very clearly not dead. I’m assuming that you found Kenin, then?”  


“Yes, he’s in custody, with a pretty nasty headache I might add.” Lestrade raised his eyebrows at them.  


“That was very justifiable self-defense,” John declared. “Look what he did to Sherlock’s face!” He indicated his swollen chin.  


“We have detained the nine other smugglers in the gang, as well. An eleventh member was found dead from a bullet to the chest, but with all the chaos, we have nothing to go on.” He looked very pointedly at the two men as he said that, however.  


“Well, I’m sure whoever did it had a very good reason,” John offered.  


“And they were a gang of smugglers after all. Not exactly the nicest people,” Sherlock added, thinking of how they’d have to wipe down the gun John had used and throw it in a river somewhere. “Hell, could’ve even been a stray bullet for all we know.”  


Lestrade stared at them for a moment. “Right,” he said slowly, drawing out the word. “Well, thanks anyway.” He smiled suddenly. “Don’t know how you did it, Sherlock, but it’s sure good to have you back. I’m going to have to call you in for some questioning though. After everything that happened… Well, let’s just say that there are still people calling you a fraud.”  


John scowled angrily but Sherlock surprised him by saying “That’s a problem for another day.” Considering how tired he felt and how sore he knew Sherlock must have been, he had to agree.  


“Yes, first things first: we have to tell Mrs. Hudson,” declared John.  


“Oh, God,” Sherlock muttered, not looking forward to the impending and inevitable hysterics.  


John bit back a grin. “Are we free to go, Lestrade?” He thought of their flat at 221b Baker Street longingly – he hadn’t stepped foot in there in ages, but now with Sherlock returned to him, he wanted nothing more than to go back to the chemistry set in the kitchen, skull on the fireplace mantel and comfy chair by the bookcase.  


Seeing how beat up the two of them were and considering that they had just helped take down a major gang of weapon traffickers, Lestrade figured he could give them the night off. He nodded in response to John’s question. “But you’d better still be here tomorrow!” he added. “No staged deaths or disappearances.”  


Sherlock smirked as he and John began heading for a main road, in hopes of finding a cab. “No worries!” he called back. And then at a normal volume: “I’m not going anywhere.”  


John smiled at that. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fanfiction. Hope you enjoyed it! Reviews/comments are much appreciated.


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